Murder by Death
by EnglishFire
Summary: Sherlock's a sociopath. Jim's a psychopath. The game is waiting to be played.
1. Chapter 1

Murder was one of Sherlock Holmes' favourite words.

It conjured up images of forgotten clues, overlooked evidence. Dark and disturbing deaths, the thrill of the chase and the swiftness of capture, all entwined with the thrilling aspect of reasoning and deducting.

Murder then, was in essence, a puzzle; something to be worked out, no matter how hard.

A riddle.

Sherlock had never liked riddles. Misleading information designed to trick the mind, throw you off course. Distraction. They were devious and cunning.

And, they were _so _easily solved. How could they not be to someone of Sherlock's 'massive intellect'? He could see straight through them in a matter of seconds, deciding what was crucial and what could be discarded.

He loved watching people's faces fell when they told him one, and he almost instantaneously replied with the answer. They thought they'd provided him with the ultimate test, one that even _he_ couldn't solve. How wrong they were. He was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective. Answering riddles was his job.

God, how boring people were! Leading boring little lives, never realising that beneath their feet lay a shady underworld of scintillating crime. In the backstreets of London, anything was possible.

Sherlock smiled at the thought.

That was before the windows of 221B exploded behind him, raining down glass and shrapnel, knocking him off his feet.

'Well, well dear Sherlock. Are you ready to play this game?' A sing-song voice Sherlock dimly acknowledged, before succumbing to the blackness that was overwhelming his body and his great, great mind.


	2. Chapter 2

When Sherlock came to, he was tied to a chair in a disused warehouse.

'And not for the first time', he thought dryly.

His head was pounding, and there was a feeling of nausea in his throat. He could barely see in the dim light; his eyes were straining to take everything in.

He was vaguely aware he was being watched, as he could feel a piercing gaze out of the darkness. Sherlock was more preoccupied, however, with the chaffing of the cable ties on his wrists.

'I'm flattered', he announced, 'Luxury treatment here, normally it's good old fashioned ropes, but no, I'm getting the full works!'

'Only the best for Sherlock Holmes,' a voice purred back from the gloom.

'Why am I here?' Sherlock demanded from his captor.

'Now, my dear, do you really think being defensive is the best way to get what you want? Mummy obviously didn't teach little Shirley manners'. The voice held a degree of irritation.

'How can you show manners to someone who won't show you his face?' Sherlock retorted.

'Good; very good! Although Sherlock, flirting over, you know who I am. Don't play coy with me, it doesn't suit you'.

'True, modesty isn't my forte. Now Jim,' for it was Jim Moriarty's voice Sherlock had recognised. 'Care to untie me?'

Jim stepped out from the shadows with a manic grin, and brandishing a pair of sharp looking scissors. Sherlock was briefly worried for a moment; Jim was a known psychopath and was coming towards him with a potentially mean weapon. The moment passed, when Jim started cutting through his bonds.

'Careful', breathed Sherlock, as Jim got dangerously close to his hands.

'Of course,' replied Jim. 'Wouldn't want to hurt you know, would we?'

'No, you _would_.'

'I know. Delightful fun, isn't it?'

'Not really.'

'Yes, Sherlock dear, but that's what makes it an _adventure_'.Jim's last word was close to a yell. 'It's a game from start to finish. Care to play?'

'What are the rules?'

'Oh, did I imply there were rules? How careless of me! Oh no, my dear. There are no rules, no rules at all'.

Sherlock was worried. Just how far would this madman go to satisfy his lust for chaos and disorder? Sherlock didn't know, but he was willing to find out. He was so _bored_; anything to break the monotony.

'I'll play your game.'

_**Author's note**_

_**So here's chapter two. This was written during a long and arduous English lesson. Chapter three should be up soon, well, when I write it. Beta'd by TheWickedWitchOfTheWest1, who had to put up with reading this under the desk so it wasn't confiscated. Well done, Fran.**_

_**More soon,**_

_**English.**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:**

_**Flirting's over, time to get on with the story!**_

_**The past two chapters were an introduction; this is where the story starts, really.**_

_**The case that takes place here is based on a real murder. Google Georgi Markov if you're interested.**_

Not for the first time, Dr. John Watson was wondering how he'd ended up at a crime scene at four in the morning.

Sherlock loved it of course, running around making seeming impossible theories out of almost nothing, telling you someone's life story because of the way they tied their shoes.

Or not: this cadaver's shoes didn't have laces.

'John. JOHN.'

Sherlock's deep, baritone voice dragged John out of his daydream about shoes.

'Sorry, what?' The doctor replied, somewhat sheepishly.

'Tell me what you think.' Sherlock's statement was not a request, but an order.

John bent over the body.

The victim was a man in his late 40's that much was clear. He was dressed in a dark, smart suit, well-cut and expensive. John would have guessed he was a banker, or an accountant. Something along those lines, anyway.

'He's not a banker'.

Sherlock's voice again cut through his thoughts.

'What?'

'Look at his hands.'

John was confused. 'Why, there's nothing special about them?'

The detective sighed impatiently.

'Look, really look.'

'Still can't see anything.'

'No, you do see, you just don't observe!'

Sherlock paced around the corpse.

'You'd expect someone who sat behind a desk all day to have calluses on his fingers, whether it is from the computer keys, or the repeated task of having to hold a pen as you worked.'

He paused, seeing the sceptical look on John's face.

'Look at your own hands. See how your finger tips are hardened at the end because of how much time you spend typing your blog? Which I still don't see the point of, by the way.'

Sherlock trailed off and John new enough about the brilliant sociopath to tell that he wasn't entirely focused on the case at hand. So, whatever it was, it was pretty big. Sherlock loved nothing more than a nice murder, so for something to be distracting him from it was obviously important.

John resolved to ask him later, at present, the man lying dead warranted more attention.

Sherlock's mind almost audibly snapped back into place.

'What was I saying? Oh yes... surely, if he was a banker, he'd at least have a callous on his right or left middle finger? Actually... he's right-handed, so his left wouldn't have one anyway.'

John could see how Sherlock had deduced he was right-handed. His watch was strapped to his left wrist, and the right hand was slightly bigger than the left, meaning the muscles were more developed.

But Sherlock was correct. There were no rough patches of skin, and all bankers used pens at least once a day, usually signing cheques.

So...

'He was a politician.' Sherlock clarified, breaking into John's thoughts again, before he'd even had time to finish them. Was this man telepathic or something?

'How d'you...'

'Manicured nails, doesn't work with his hands, which narrows the field considerably. His suit is neat, clean from any dirt or grime, works indoors, travels by cabs, tell that from the creases in his clothes.'

Sherlock paused for breath.

'Aah, but that's not all. The cut of the suit, fabric used, he's not English, and let's not forget how much the style represents that of my dear brother,'

'So, a foreign politician's lying dead with no apparent reason to be?' John was struggling to take everything in. 'From what I can see, this bloke was a healthy man, no obvious medical conditions, and now he's just...dead. He had no signs of asphyxiation, no trauma, nothing. We'll have to get him to Bart's and let Molly do the autopsy.'

At his words, a few forensic officers came forward to lift the corpse onto a trolley. As they did so his left trouser leg rode up.

Revealing a small metal pellet embedded into the flesh of the man's calf.

**Author's Note:**

_**Ooh, what's that?**_

_**Sorry it took a while to get this up, but Writer's Block is a bitch, you know?**_

'_**Til next time,**_

_**English.**_


	4. Chapter 4

0In the harsh light of the mortuary in St. Bartholomew's Hospital, Sherlock Holmes held up the metal case extracted from the corpse in his long, white fingers. He scrutinized it, memorizing every detail; absorbing every fact. The pellet was only around 1.5mm, roughly the size of a pin-head. How could something so small have caused this man's death?

Suddenly, the door swung open, revealing Molly Hooper, who was nervously clutching a file in her trembling hands.

'Ah, Molly, you have the autopsy results, I presume?' Sherlock's question was direct and to the point.

'Y..yes'. Molly stammered.

'Well, what was it?'

'Erm… he died of mass-organ failure, probab...'

'Fascinating.' Sherlock interrupted, before reaching over to snatch the file.

Skimming through it, he voiced his deductions aloud.

'Fluid in the lungs, drowned? Yes, yes.'

Sherlock paced around the room, before abruptly turning to face Molly.

'I'll need to see the body.'

'But… the paperwork's already gone through, there's nothing you could get from it.'

Sherlock shot her a withering gaze. 'Molly, please don't act like an idiot. I know you look like one, but appearances can be deceptive.'

Molly looked affronted.

'Not good? Bit not good.' Sherlock realised. 'Sorry Molly,' he apologised, pressing a chaste kiss on her cheek.

She blushed like a schoolgirl.

'Well…I'll see what I can do.'

'Thank you.'

And with that, Molly turned on her heel, and strode out of the room.


	5. Chapter 5

John Watson was reclining is his armchair with a mug of tea, when the devil came calling.

Hearing an unfamiliar step on the stairs, he reached for his gun.

The door was burst open, nearly off its hinges, when James Moriarty, in all his Westwood glory, sauntered into the room.

'John, darling, how lovely to see you!'

'Wish I could say the same.'

Moriarty walked across the room and sat down in the armchair across from John's.

John, keeping a loaded pistol in your pocket is a dangerous habit to have.'

James curled up like a cat in his chair.

'Anyway, have you seen dear Sherlock today? Why am I asking? I know you haven't!' The Irish voice was tainted with madness.

'If you've done anything to him, I swear…'

'Swear what, Johnny boy? To destroy me? Ooh, I'm so fwightened, pwease don't let the nasty man hurt me! No, no. I will destroy you, after I've finished with Shirley. In the mean time, I haven't done anything to him. He's at Bart's.'

'How d'you know that?'

'Please. My surveillance network covers the whole of England. It's about as powerful as Mycroft's. I know what anyone is doing at any time.'

'So why are you here?'

'What, Shirley didn't tell you about our little tête-à-tête? Tut tut.'

'Give me a straight answer.'

'Well, when Sherlock doesn't respond to my little invitations, one has to take matters into one's own hands.'

'I'm warning you…'

'Fine! I blew up the building, kidnapped the princess, and made good my escape. Not your average fairy tale.'

'You... kidnapped Sherlock?

'Yup.'

'Any reason?'

'Bored.'

'Okay,' John sighed. 'Jim... what are you doing here?'

'To see if Sherlock has solved my little puzzle.'

'Little...puzzle ? You mean, you're the one behind the politician's murder ?'

'The one; the only.' Jim spat, standing up to take a sarcastic bow.

'Why?'

'BORED!'

'Right.'

'Anyhoo, it's simple-pimple. If Sherlock doesn't solve it in the next two hours, I will have seriously over-estimated him. I better be off. Toodle-oo.'

And before John could stop him, Moriarty leapt through the door and vanished into London's busy streets. John sighed, before grabbing his phone to text Sherlock. He sure as Hell had some explaining to do...

_**Author's Note:**_

_**Wow. Two chapters in as many days. Sorry for any O/C, but I found Jim's perspective slightly harder to write from.**_

_**If convenient review; if inconvenient, review anyway.**_

_**English **_


	6. Chapter 6

As Sherlock Holmes bent low over the body, and poked it with a fingertip, he regretted not turning his phone off. Or at least putting it on silent.

As he felt it vibrate in his pocket, he heaved a sigh.

'This had better be important', he muttered darkly.

One new message.

From – John Watson.

_Sherlock._

_Normally when people get kidnapped, it's a traumatic experience._

_For you, not so much._

_Your favourite person gave me a visit just now at Baker Street to gloat. And no, it wasn't Mycroft._

_Get your arse back here, now, or I'll come and get you._

_JW_

'Bugger', Sherlock thought, before grabbing his coat and scarf, before sweeping gracefully from the room.

_**Author's Note**_

_**Apologies for this being such a woefully short chapter. My English teacher would say that this is a good thing, because I'm 'varying sentence structure'. However, both you and I know it's just an excuse because my mind cogs are whirring slowly.**_

_**I'll go and find some WD-40, and go brainstorm. The next chapter will be longer, promise!**_

'_**Til then,**_

_**EnglishFire.**_


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock Holmes was worried what John's reaction was going to be this time.

The Consulting Detective always struggled with emotions and reading people's facial expressions. He could never understand why John worried over him so much.

So when he entered 221B, he couldn't help but feel nervous. After all, he put John through a lot.

He pushed open the door, and was pleasantly surprised by John standing there with a cup of tea, which he offered to Sherlock.

'Sherlock, drink this. You don't drink enough.'

However comforting John's words may have sounded, Sherlock couldn't help but notice the sternness in his face.

'And just because I'm giving you tea, it doesn't mean I've forgiven you.'

Sherlock smiled.

'Don't smile at me, Sherlock. I've been worried sick. Why didn't you tell me?'

'I saw no need to inform you. I also do not understand why you would care.'

'It's not the bloody solar system! These things are important!' John practically was shouting now.

'Why?'

'Because... beca... Moriarty is a madman, and he will stop at nothing to destroy you, you and I both know that. How did I know that he wasn't going to kill you?'

'You didn't?' Sherlock was confused.

'Exactly! You could be dead now.'

'But I'm not.'

'But you could have been killed!'

'But I wasn't.'

'Don't start another sentence with "but"'.

'Right, sorry.' Sherlock paused. 'I...apologise, I was wrong. I should have told you?'

'Good start, keep going.'

'Erm... I will tell you in future if I am kidnapped?'

'That'll do for today. Drink your tea before it gets cold.'

'Thank you.' Sherlock sipped his tea, as John walked out of the room.

_**Author's Note:**_

_**Apologies for the long delay in the uploading of this chapter. I'm looking to wrap this up in the next chapter or so.**_

_**See you then,**_

_**English.**_


	8. Chapter 8

John Watson sat on his bed with his head in his hands. It was at times like these when he seriously considered asking Mycroft to have Sherlock electronically tagged.

A loud whooping noise broke his train of thought.

A moment later, he heard Sherlock running up the stairs to his room.

'John!'

'Yes, Sherlock?'

'I've got it!' Sherlock was practically bouncing off of the walls with excitement.

'What?'

'Oh, pay attention! It was the poison from the plant _Ricinus communis, b_etter known as Ricin.

'What was?'

'Honestly John, are you half asleep? The cause of that politician's death was poisoning by Ricin. It was an assassination. Look at this.'

Sherlock laid an umbrella next to John on the bed.

'This had been modified to hold a single pellet; the dimensions corresponded exactly with that of the pellet that was found in the body. The handle has a button concealed in it which would force the pellet out, rather like a gun.'

'How did you find it?'

'With the use of CCTV cameras where the body was found, a good dose of logic, and the lost and found department in Euston Station.'

John sighed; he knew that would be all he would get out of Sherlock.

'Have you told Lestrade yet?'

'No point. The killer won't be in the country anymore. He would have fled after he saw the newspaper reports confirming the death. I have informed Mycroft. He has his contacts.'

'Right. Tea?'

'Please. I think I'll go and practise the violin.'

'Oh good.' John said sarcastically, as Sherlock left the room.

'Oh, and John?' Came Sherlock's voice from the foot of the stairs.

'Yes, Sherlock?'

'The kitchen's on fire.'

John rushed out of his room to go and fix whatever mess it was that Sherlock had made this time.

Meanwhile, in an old, abandoned warehouse, James Moriarty switched off the camera with an evil grin.

'Until the next time, Sherlock, dear.'

_**Author's Note**_

_**And there we are, at the end of another successful case.**_

_**Enjoyed it? I hope so.**_

_**Stick around folks, I'll be back soon with another story. And maybe this time, there'll be a mysterious man in a blue box. Who knows?**_

_**Ta-raa.**_

_**EnglishFire.**_


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